


this message is to let you know that i won't be back tomorrow

by Adversarial



Series: tick, tick, boom! [1]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Character Study, Degradation, Dubious Consent, Edd and Matt as background characters, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Frottage, Gun Kink, Hand Jobs, Knifeplay, M/M, Phone Sex, Physical Abuse, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Violence, Tom just wants to go to bed, Tord's trying to take over the world, somehow spans from pre-original to post-End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-22 22:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10706841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adversarial/pseuds/Adversarial
Summary: Tord moves closer, and you finally shift your gaze to his shit-eating grin."Classic, stupid Tom. Always thinking you're worth something. Always dragging everyone around you down. You're worthless, you know that?" He sees something pained in your expression and leans in, smile gleaming in the television's dull glow. "Absolutely worthless."---(you may be an idiot, but even you know that this isn't a love story)





	1. act i - (truth and beauty are wonderful words)

It's late at night and you're crashed out on the couch, blankly watching the TV flicker through yet another infomercial. Your back is aching and your hair's still not quite the way you remembered it, but there's a drink in your hand and four more in your gut, so you're beginning to be okay with this. 

This, you decided with blurry finality, ignoring the disconcertingly cheerful man on the screen, marks the last time you let Edd talk you into joining the military. You toast to your oath and chug the remainder of your alcohol, slamming your glass down on the arm of the couch and reaching for your flask. Which is. Not in your hoodie pocket. Probably still in your military coat. Back in your room. Right. 

Well, screw it. You flop back into your seat with finality. It's been a long day. You're not gonna walk the twenty meters to your room if you can pass out here instead. The man on the screen (who looks, you realize belatedly, kinda like Matt) is very empathetically attempting to convince you to order now. Which you wouldn't, even if you had the money. Which you don't.

You're about to mutter as much to Matt Man when you feel the other side of the couch give way under someone's weight. 

Tord. "Hey, Tord."

"Mm?" He's not paying attention to you, instead opting to look thoughtfully at the infomercial. He's still in his military digs, now dirty and covered in blood. His hat, you decide in a fit of drunken observation, looks stupid.

"Your hat, Tord. Tord, your hat's stupid." He sneered at that, still watching the infomercial. You grin before flopping back on the couch. 

"Drunk again already, Tom?" he murmurs, and you can hear the mocking smile in his voice. Bingo. "How typical."

You flip him off without moving from where you're slowly becoming one with the couch. It hurts when he says that (it always hurts when he says it, damnit, you should be used to this by now but you aren't and probably never will be) but you keep your tone flat when you reply. "Hey, at least I took off my nasty fatigues before sitting on the furniture. Bet you think you look good in that, huh Commie? Bet you make it thinks you look real cool."

He doesn't respond, so you keep going, eyes on a crack in the ceiling that's been there since last Christmas. Should probably fix that sometime. Maybe throw in a building montage for funsies. "Makes you look like a grade-A douchecanoe, Tord. One of those... Those adult people who do the stupid World War One reenactments and never get laid. Live Action something-or-others." It's been a long day. You're usually better than this. "Like one of those pimply fortysomething-year-old Russian virgins who stand outside the convenience store in a trenchcoat taking pictures of teenage chicks from behind." Tord snorts at that, and you're not sure how coherent your insult was, but you applaud yourself for your effort and reach into your pocket for your flask. Which is still, amazingly, not in your pocket. Forgot about that.

You lay there in silence for a moment, watching the light from the television flicker over the ceiling crack. You almost miss the soft huff of laughter coming from Tord. Probably would have if you weren't waiting for it.

"You see, it's funny," he finally says, accent just a tad stronger than usual. "It's funny to have someone so pathetic trying to get under my skin." You feel the couch shift as he finally turns to face you, but you keep staring determinedly at the ceiling. Tord's words have you gritting your teeth. "I mean, look at you! A burgeoning alcoholic at twenty, no job, no prospects. Ugly. Abandoned by your family. Mooching off of the two fools who were idiot enough to show you pity." Your hands are clenching into fists. You refuse to look at him. It's not like he's wrong. 

Tord moves closer, and you finally shift your gaze to his shit-eating grin. "Classic, stupid Tom. Always thinking you're worth something. Always dragging everyone around you down. You're worthless, you know that?" He sees something pained in your expression and leans in, smile gleaming in the television's dull glow. "Absolutely worthless."

You slug him.

He catches your arm, which you expected, and you swing your other fist at his exposed stomach. It connects, sending him sprawling backwards on the couch. Your head is foggy. You haul yourself onto your knees and lean over him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him up, snapping his neck back with a crack even you can hear. He's laughing, still gasping desperately for air. You've gone from self-loathing to seething in what you're sure is record time, and you can tell that Tord is reveling in this victory.

You raise your free hand up to pummel his face when his hands come up to yank on your hoodie, pulling you off-balance and sending you crashing down on top of him. You can feel his chest rising and falling with his laughter, and you scramble to get back up but he holds you against him in a painful bear hug. "Classic, stupid Tom," he repeats, a whisper, and you are about to (claw his goddamn eyes out) do something desperate when he sticks out his tongue and licks the shell of your ear. You're suddenly limp in his arms and he gives a self-satisfied sigh as his hands travel down your back. He reaches the elastic of your hoodie, playing with it, and you try to fight against the sick excitement that's suddenly crowding out your thoughts. You should be furious. You should push yourself off of his chest, give yourself space to think, but his hands are snaking up your back and his smile has turned predatory and any coherence you may have had is gone as you close your eyes and try your damnedest not to moan. 

"Look at you. How pathetic." Tord's palms are rough with callouses, caressing between your shoulder blades and rucking up your sweatshirt. "You've got the self-control of a bitch in heat, Tom." 

Your hands ball up into fists. His fingers start moving down again, easily slipping over your skin, and you can feel his breathing hitch when you finally groan. You hate him. You hate him for this. You hate him for making you want this, for making you the kind of desperate that keeps you up late at night, his words looping through your skull over and over as you try and fail not to touch yourself. Classic, stupid Tom. 

He's messing with your waistband now, your face buried in his bloodstained shirt as you try to stay quiet. You can already feel the beginnings of an erection pressed up against your thigh and you're rubbing up against it before you can stop yourself, earning a sound of approval from Tord as his hands slide lower to cup your ass. He's burning hot, you realize deliriously. Almost feverish. You bite down hard on your tongue when he squeezes, jolting forward and once again rubbing up against the hardness at your thigh. He's laughing again, more breathily this time, as he pats your ass. "Incredible."

"What," you mutter, voice muffled from where your face is pressed up against his chest. His hands come up again, catching the waistband of your jeans with his thumbs and yanking them downwards. You keep your eyes closed. 

"One of those adult people who do the stupid World War One reenactments," he giggles in a falsetto that you realize is supposed to be you, "and never get laid." His fingers are tracing idle pattens across your boxers. When he speaks again, his voice is back to its normal mocking lilt. "And yet, here you are. So desperate. So needy," he exhales, shifting himself so that one palm is at the front of your boxers, pinned between you, rubbing up against your cock through thin fabric as you gasp. "Even you must see how wretched you are?" 

His words are belied by the way he rolls his hips ever so slightly, and he groans when you begin to move your thigh, a small up-and-down bounce that makes him strain up towards you even as shame makes you flinch into his shoulder. You hate yourself for the way you're gasping, rutting up against his hand (like a bitch in heat, christ, you're worthless). He's back to laughing again, insufferable even as he moves his free hand up into your hair, burying his fist in it and yanking your head up from where it was resting against his chest with a throb of pain that goes straight to your dick. Your eyes jolt open and he's staring straight into you, laughter fading into panting as he sees how utterly wrecked you are. "Freak," he breathes, before slamming his hand down, pushing you into an obscene kiss. 

His lips are chapped and you taste blood (his or yours, you can't tell) the split second before his tongue is invading your mouth. The hand at your crotch finally slips into your boxers to begin to jack you off properly and you're practically writhing on top of him, his hips still rutting against your thigh. He's too busy biting at your lips to talk, but his voice is in your head, taunting you as you feel yourself coming undone. Slut. Whore. Sex addict. Pathetic. His mouth moves to your neck, kissing and sucking and leaving hickies that you know will last for weeks. You whine as you thrust into his hand. Abruptly, he freezes, fingers painfully tight around your shaft.

You'd forgotten about this part.

"Beg," Tord demands, his breath hot on your neck, and you squirm as his grip constricts, making you cry out. He's still thrusting against your leg, the front of his pants damp, and he throws back his head to give a porn star moan that makes your cock throb. It's not fair, how he can play you like this. He runs his tongue up your neck slowly, leaving a trail of saliva over the marks he's just left on your skin. "Beg me to let you come."

You can't hold out (wretched, pathetic, worthless). "Tord, let me-" you can't finish the sentence, oh god he's digging his nails into your dick and he's muffling your scream with his free hand so that you don't wake Matt and Edd. 

"What's the magic word, Tom?" You want to kill him you want to kill yourself you want to cry oh god oh god-

"Tord, please-" he slams his hand over your mouth again as he begins to jerk you, fast and hard and you're crying for real now, how pathetic, and you come with a whimper as you're blinded by your own orgasm. He finishes soon after, grunting your name into your ear before his entire body relaxes, spent. 

You lay on top of him, breathing hard. 

Suddenly, there were fingers in your hair, carding through it gently. You nudge your head up into his hand, ignoring the way he smirks and the hollow feeling in your stomach. He's petting you, condescending and comforting all at once, and you close your eyes as he turns over, dragging you down onto the couch with him so that you're laying nose-to-nose. You can't make yourself meet his eyes. 

"Classic, stupid Tom," he huffs, and there's affection there this time mixed in with the insult. It makes the hollow feeling in your stomach stronger. 

You fall asleep with your face in his disgusting army coat and wake up alone in the living room. You stagger to your room for an ibuprofen and rinse it down with warm alcohol.

\---

(it hadn't started out this way. all you'd known was that you'd found someone who could read your insecurities like a book and that you'd hated him for it. 

it was fine, really. you knew that you were worthless. having someone around to constantly remind you of your every failing seemed like a giant karmic middle finger and you were absolutely, positively fine with it,

but one night you came home drunk and his words were the last goddamn straw and your hands were at his throat and he

well. 

you know how it goes.)

\---  
You'd met Edd and Matt almost six years ago, during your freshman year of high school. There wasn't any particular force pulling the three of you together-- you just had enough classes together that companionship was inevitable, even for your asocial self. By the time you graduated, you'd shared enough lunches, bad teachers, and misadventures in Matt's dad's minivan to cement a lifetime of friendship. 

You realized early on that trouble followed Edd like a faithful dog and that Matt's head was either too far in the clouds or up his ass to allow for basic human reason. This was fine in your book-- you'd been raised with enough knowledge of weaponry and common sense to share, and it wasn't like you had anyone else to share it with. Edd and Matt and your adventures together were all that mattered to you once you moved out, and there was never a shortage of any of the three.

For a while, life was... Not quite good, but good enough. Edd worked hard at his cartoons, Matt modeled on the weekends, and you tried to make a living playing bass guitar at the train station. Occasionally, you'd come home to a ghost possession or a zombie outbreak or a demonic cockroach or something of that nature, and you'd spend an adrenaline-packed evening dealing with the fallout before inevitably crashing with your two best (only) friends on the couch and laughing, because seriously, demon roaches?

\---

(you three were always the underdogs, always up against impossible odds. at least once a week, you'd be sure that you were breathing your last, but you'd persevere. "the power of friendship," edd joked once when you brought it up. "nothing can take us down so long as we have each other!" you'd laughed and he'd punched your shoulder and went back to his drawing tablet and you'd called it a day.

but sometimes, late at night, you'd half-remember the feeling of bullets piercing your chest and wonder, gasping for air with miraculously functional lungs, if your luck was running out)

\---

Eventually, your combined incomes were not enough to cover rent. Enter Tord, a fresh-off-the-boat Norwegian immigrant with a seemingly infinite bank account, who inserted himself into your lives overnight and immediately won Matt and Edd's affections with his taste in movies and ability to consistently afford name-brand cereal ("Tom, look! We haven't had Lucky Charms since graduation!"). 

Something about him put you off. Maybe it was the Communist ideology that Tord seemed so fond of, or his concerning number of submachine guns. Maybe it was because your friend-making skills had dried up from underuse. Whatever it was, it made you uneasy around him.

He'd realized it, of course, with his usual startling alacrity. You could tell from the way he smiled at you, the little comments he dropped ("it's a bit early in the day to be drinking, hm?"). Your unease grew quickly into dislike, and finally into contempt. There was just something very wrong about Tord and you could never put your finger on it.

Until, eventually, you did. 

\---

(you came home from the mall late one night. tord was more grating that usual. you were more drunk than usual. veiled criticisms became direct insults, and you finally caved to your rage and threw the smug bastard down on the kitchen floor, fully intending to stomp back to your room and call it a night. 

you weren't expecting him to stagger back to his feet and grab you by your hood and pin you to the wall in a offensive maneuver that belonged in one of edd's awful animated kung fu videos. you were frozen in place as he pushed up against you, dick hard through his jeans, nails drawing blood where they scratched at the exposed skin on your arms. he'd kissed you breathless that night, leaving thin cuts on your arms and a morbid curiosity as to how far he'd go if you'd kept pushing him.

looking back, you're surprised it took so long to come to this.)

\---

There were rules, you'd learned quickly. You had to throw the first insult, and it had to be a good one. It had to be late at night and the two of you had to be alone. You had to be drunk, or at the very least on your way to it. Edd and Matt could never, ever know.

You would always wake up alone.

Which was, for the record, fine by you.

\---

(you may be an idiot, but even you know that this isn't a love story)

\---

His car was in the driveway this morning. 

You remembered last night and immediately began filling the trunk with all of Tord's belongings while Edd and Matt said their goodbyes. Your stomach didn't feel hollow at all. 

Nobody asked why he was leaving. He'd left enough money in rent to pay his share for the next eight years. You loaded another armful of guns into the back of his car. 

"Goodbye!"

"Good luck!"

"Good riddance."

\---

(minutes later, matt flushes the keys down the toilet and you're dragged into a ridiculous adventure in atlantis. matt seems more harebrained than usual, and edd's a little pensive, but tord's absence is forgotten by the time you come back to the surface, keys in hand. 

you laugh about fish people over dinner and sleep better than you have in a long time.)

\--- 

It's like high school again. You and Edd and Matt, working during the days, adventuring at nights. Money's gone back to being tight without Tord's credit card available to purchase groceries, but it's been worse before and it looks like Edd's animation is finally starting to catch on. 

You push Tord out of your mind to the best of your abilities, delete his number off your phone to head off temptation (not that it matters-- Edd checked and the number was already disconnected), and move on. 

It's not like you've suddenly stopped hating yourself, but not having someone around to constantly tear you apart is certainly helpful. 

\---

(late at night, when you lay on the couch in the dark watching infomercials alone, you wonder where he is, if he thinks about you as much as you think about him. 

you take a shot for him, every once in a while. in memory of whatever fucked-up emotion made him ruffle your hair and fall asleep next to you.

you still hate him.)

\---

It's a month before you get the call, an unknown number from an area code you don't recognize, on your way back from a solid day of busking. You're fully prepared to give a telemarketer the sales call of their nightmares up until you hear the voice on the other end of the line. 

"Tom?" 

You'd always thought that romance authors writing about hearts skipping beats were being melodramatic. But nope, there it is, the feeling of impending and painful cardiac arrest leaving you speechless.

He's breathing hard on the other end of the line, distorted by the awful connection. "Tom? Is this you?"

"Yeah," you finally rasp out. "Where the hell have you been?"

He chuckles at that, sounding pained. "That's... Not something I can talk about at the moment. You'll know soon enough."

"That's not suspicious at all." Your anger is back, and you slide easily into it. Just like old times. "Where the hell are you, Tord? You vanished off the face of the Earth, didn't even think to call-" 

"Missed me?" So fucking smug. 

"Everything's been better without you around," you spit, and you're about to hang up on him when you hear him sigh. His breathing never slowed down, and you suddenly have a very good idea as to why. 

"Ah, I've missed you, Tom," he jokes, and the way your voice sounds on his tongue sends a chill down your spine. "It's been too long."

You're a few blocks from home, but there's a gas station half a block away and you start walking towards it with purpose. You pray to a god that you still kind of believe in that they have individual restroom stalls.

"Not long enough," you growl, earning yourself a good-humored groan. "Next time, don't come back."

"I'm not quite back yet, darling." That was a new one. You'd never thought Tord would be one for pet names. "But let me assure you, when I am back, I have plans for you."

"Really, now." You slam open the door to the gas station convenience store and quickly make your way to the restroom, taking the zombie clerk and vampire truckers in stride. Single-occupancy restrooms. Score. "And what would those be?"

"Well, now. For starters, I would love to fuck you over the kitchen table."

You unzip your fly, pinning your phone between your cheek and shoulder. "At least take me out to dinner first, jeez." 

He laughs, and you begin to palm yourself through your boxers. This is the first time you've heard from Tord in a month, and already he's got you jacking off in a gas station restroom. This must be what rock bottom feels like.

"Why waste the money? We've both seen you beg, Tom. There's no need to pretend that you wouldn't love it." You close your eyes and bite your tongue as he continues, "I heard the zipper. You're horny already, aren't you? Pathetic." 

You feel yourself flushing bright red, still rubbing yourself through your underwear. You hate yourself for getting off to this. You hate that you know that this will be the memory you get off to for the next week, burying your face in your pillow and pretending that it's him touching you. 

"Just imagine, Tom," he says, voice whimsical. "I have you pinned against the countertop. I'm running my hands up and down your chest, over and over." You moan at the image, free hand moving to mimic his words, and you hear him gasp before continuing. "I'm taking off your pants now. Your underwear, too. Your skin is always so cool before I massage the blood back into it, you know. It makes me want to touch every bit of you." You're pretty sure he can hear your breathing at this point, your hand dipping into your boxers as he keeps talking, "but you're too desperate for that, aren't you? I have to go straight on down to keep you from losing your mind." 

He pauses, and you keep jacking yourself off, boxers pulled down to your knees. It's been too long since you'd last gotten off and you're already shamefully close to-

"Stop."

It's cold and authoritative, and your eyes snap open. "Hnh?"

"You heard me, Tom. Stop."

"... Stop wha?" you manage, too occupied by the prospect of the best orgasm you've had since he'd left to pay attention to what he was saying now.

"Stop touching yourself or I'll hang up." He sounds serious, almost solemn. "Put your hands behind your back, Tom."

You grind your teeth together and slowly move your hands so that they're behind your back, head still tilted to the side to keep your phone from falling onto the floor. You stare down at yourself, take in the state of your dick (swollen, red, fast becoming painful) and wonder what the hell he's playing at. More importantly, you wonder why you're playing along.

"You've stopped?" 

You make an affirmative sound. Your knees are shaking. You have no interest in collapsing onto the disgusting bathroom tile. 

"That's a good boy," he murmurs, and you whine as your cock throbs. He sounds so close, like any second now he'll press up behind you and take you in his hands and- "you know what to do."

You do, and you do it without any hesitation. "Tord, please let me come."

You hear him murmur "come for me, Tom" and shudder, finally moving your hands from behind your back and finishing yourself off in a few rough strokes. Blazing triumph.

You sink to the floor, gasping for breath. Already, you can feel the self-loathing building through your post-orgasm haze. Wonderful. 

You'd dropped your phone when you came, cracking the screen, and as you examine the damage you can hear Tord, still talking. "Didn't quite catch that," you mumble into the receiver as you gingerly hold the cracked screen to your face. "Kinda lost track of my phone when I came." 

"Nothing important." You grind your teeth, dropping your head into your hands. Already, you're calculating the cost of screen repairs against your more-limited-than-usual monthly budget (aliens took out the roof a few days ago, and the replacement hadn't been cheap). You almost miss his quiet continuation. "I've missed this, you know."

Your stomach does that weird thing you've come to associate exclusively with Tord. "Yeah. I guess I have, too."

"Of course you have. It's not like anyone else would do this for you." His tone is playful. Your mood plummets. Classic, stupid Tom, thinking you'd get out of this with your self-esteem intact. 

Your string of profanity just makes him laugh, and you hang up on him before throwing your phone across the bathroom. It's not like the screen wasn't already cracked. 

Slowly, you get to your feet and stumble over to the sink, tugging your pants back up and zipping your fly. You run the tap until it's scalding, cupping the water in your hands and scrubbing at your face. You deliberately ignore the mirror.

\--- 

(you hadn't realized how much better you'd gotten until you began to get bad again.

edd chides you about being late up until he sees your expression and offers you a can of cola. you thank him and head immediately to your room. you go to bed at five pm and don't wake up until noon the next day.

you drag yourself to the bathroom, masturbate to the memory of his breathing, and then proceed to get shitfaced.)

\--- 

This goes on. He'll call you randomly, anywhere from once a week to one a year, seemingly at random. Every time, he calls from a different number. Every time you try to call him back afterwards, you find that the number has been disconnected.

You have no idea where on Earth he is, or what exactly he's doing-- when you ask, he gives you subtle evasions and assures you that you'll know what he's been up to soon enough. Eventually, you stop asking. 

You wonder what he would do if you stopped answering his calls: if he would keep dialing until you picked up, or if he'd never contact you again. You've considered letting calls go to voicemail just to see what he would do, made vows to yourself that you wouldn't pick up next time, because you know logically that he's awful and that talking to him makes you miserable and that you won't feel like a real person again for a week after talking with him. You pick up every time.

Because, you realize, you're in too deep. He's on your mind constantly, obsessively. Whether you're playing bass or hanging out with your friends or saving all of humanity from improbable (impossible) odds, he's there in your ear telling you that you're a failure, reminding you that you deserve this, that you need him as some sort of penance for continuing to plague the universe with your presence. He calls and you pick up and he fucks you with his words and he laughs at you and he leaves you desperate for more and he hangs up and disappears for another three months and _you fucking deserve this_.

\---

(he calls you one night when you're lying on the couch watching infomercials alone in the dark, a wasted mess. he insults you and makes you beg and comes and before he hangs up, he says "i love you". 

you stare blearily up at the crack in the ceiling that you'd never got around to fixing. it's been eight years since he's left. 

somehow, nothing has changed at all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "truth and beauty are wonderful words
> 
> but shrapnel is shrapnel
> 
> and at the end of the day
> 
> i am alone with the things i've done"
> 
> \- A Softer World, #227
> 
> \---
> 
> Welcome to Act 1 of my first-ever Eddsworld fic! Ideally, the intermission will be posted by Tuesday, at which time I can give a status report on the end of the story, but we'll see how that goes. If any of you are here from my SvtFoE fic, let this be my official apology for not giving you guys a part two yet. It's coming, I promise.
> 
> I'd like to give a shoutout to my consistently amazing editor, @jinxedlucky, for her keen wit and her incredible advice on writing phone sex ("just google it jesus fuck do some goddamn research there's probably a WikiHow article somewhere"). Feel free to reach out to me at @idiosyncraticmagic on tumblr!


	2. (a sword is only a sword when it kills)

_Hey, this is Tom. Leave a message after the tone and I'll get back to you, probably._

(beep.)

"So. It's been a while, eh?

I know, I know. It makes you anxious when I'm gone for too long. The thing is, Tom, there are machinations at play that will be making everything very interesting, very soon. I have a lot to get done between now and tomorrow, and then...

Well. I don't want to ruin the surprise now, do I? You'll know when it's happening.

You see, it could be quite a while before you hear from me again. I'll be back for you, Tom. It's inevitable. Ideally, I'll find you sooner rather than later, but just in case I don't, there are a few things I want you to know.

You see, Tom, I hate you. 

You are everything wrong with the world. You are apathy and pointless rage and turning your back on anything that does not directly concern you. Your world consists of only yourself and your feelings and perhaps, tangentially, your friends. You add nothing and take more than you need and ignore the fact that the rest of the world is falling apart around you. You drink and sleep and fuck and the world is full of people like you, Tom, people who can't see the bigger picture. There are homeless men starving down the street and you walk past them without a second glance. How vile must you be to find your life bearable. How self-absorbed. You disgust me, Tom, because you are all of these things, and you disgust me especially because you know that you are all of these, and you do nothing. 

You see, Tom, I loathe you. Not because you cannot see the truth of the world, but because you see it with uncaring eyes. If the eyes are windows into the soul, well... What does that say about you?

And the absolute irony of it, Tom, you will never believe. You are the first person I've met who can see this world with me. I've spent my life watching, waiting for someone who would see the sheer horror of this with me. Someone I could confide in, who felt the same crushing abject terror at the cruelty of the universe. I've found people who've come close. I've found many more who can see it with guidance, at least enough to know a fraction of the horror. But you, Tom. You see it completely. You've always seen it. And, because you are the only one who can ever feel the same dread that I do, you can be the only one who will ever understand.

Whenever I doubt myself, Tom, I think of you. This weight is a heavy one. There are times when I wonder if you might not have the wrong idea, blinding yourself to it. When I doubt myself and my ability to fix the world, I wonder if I should come home to you, Tom. We could drink together and sleep together and ignore everything and it would be so much easier. But I think of you and I know that you could never truly be happy so long as this truth is out there. You will always be living stooped under the weight, the unbearable weight of being. You would dance forever in chains. I think it would kill me. 

You hide from the truth, you know. You hide in alcohol and low aspirations and the chaos Edd trails in his wake because you have seen the world for what it truly is. You refuse to fight back. When I see you, drunk on the couch, I am terrified. You are the only one who can shoulder this burden with me, Tom, and you've left me alone. An unconscious betrayal, but a betrayal nonetheless. 

So when I find you alone at night, drunk and lower than a dog, and I force you to acknowledge your own shame, and I fuck into you and look into your eyes and see that you _know_ , no matter how hard you try to run, that you _know_ the way I do and that I am, for a moment, no longer alone... Tom, I love you more than I can ever describe. 

I will tear you to pieces, Tom. I will tear you apart and shove your failures into your face and break you down until you can't ignore it anymore, the way I can never ignore it. And then, Tom, on that day when you finally give in to me and face the truth? 

I will never be alone again. 

I need you, Tom. I can't be Atlas forever. 

Expect me, darling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the incredible (and sadly orphaned) fic A Thousand Years, which I will always recommend without hesitation.
> 
> Act 2 should be up by Sunday night at the latest!
> 
> Once again, my undying gratitude goes to my amazing editor @jinxedlucky, who continuously puts up with my 2AM Tord headcanons. Hit me up at @idiosyncraticmagic!


	3. act ii - (so i can save you when the time comes)

The End happens. 

There's really not much more to say.

\---

(you'd woken up to one new voicemail that you hadn't checked because you'd been fishing with edd and matt that morning. your dawn had been calm and you'd come home with a smile on your face and rounded the corner and suddenly you were face-to-face with him for the first time in years and he acted like you were nothing.

you tolerated him with gritted teeth until you finally you didn't, storming out and not coming back until you have a wanted poster in your hand, running back to him as everything

fell

into

place.

the sudden vanishing act, his affinity for the military, the literal writing on the walls, his phones constantly being disconnected, it all fit together perfectly as he smirked and stabbed you in the back. you are blinded by betrayal as you

shoot 

him

down.

he went up in smoke in flames in glorious destruction and you were still screaming when edd rushed to you to ask if you're alright and you're _fine_ you're more than alright goddamnit you don't feel a fucking thing.)

\---

You're still settling into your new apartment when you finally check your messages. 

It's different in your new home. Smaller, for one. Lonelier. There's no decade-old crack in the ceiling, so you stare at perfect popcorn plaster as you listen to your voicemail. 

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach and refuses to come out for days.

\---

(you killed him  
you killed him  
you killed him yuo kiilled him jlyou killedhim you kiilled hisjmyoukillleesdhimyoukillseddhimyoUKILLSNEDHAKMMYOUTKKILLLEDHJMMYOU-

you get shitfaced.)

\---

Edd and Matt stage an intervention on day three, once you're done getting your stomach pumped. They hide your vodka and keep you away from sharp things and talk about you in low tones while you're still in the room. Edd asks if you want to talk. You would not, thank you.

During the day, you distract yourself with adventures and your barely-repaired bass. You behave, because you never want to see that face Matt made in the ER ever again. At night, you listen to Tord's voicemail until you fall asleep. 

\---

(it's been five days since the end and you're lying awake in bed when you hear a knock on your door. 

your apartment was dark but the hallway lights never go out and when your eyes adjust he's there, leaning on the doorframe, smirking like you never murdered him, and you think you might be sick.

he's chuckling and when the shock wears off you realize that he's clutching painfully at his shoulder and that there are dark circles under his eyes and he looks like absolute shit, dust in his hair and blood on his face and he's leaning on the doorframe a little too hard for it to be just for dramatic effect.

"i told you i'd be back for you.")

\---

You're frozen in place and he's still grinning, pushing himself away from the wall before closing the distance between your bodies. He kisses you for the first time in eight years.

He's shaking, slight tremors thrumming through his entire body, and when he pulls away he just collapses against your chest, the sudden deadweight making you stumble.

"I thought you were dead," is all you can manage, before he's cackling and trying to push off your chest with his good arm and failing, falling back against you again. 

"Don't worry, I'm close to it," he manages to say, laughing and shaking and reeking of sweat and blood where he's pressed up against your clean hoodie. "I haven't slept in days."

"Or showered, apparently." He's back and on the edge of death (he's alive he's alive oh god he's alive) and all you can dredge up is an insult. Incredible.

Tord stops laughing but keeps grinning, burying his face in your shoulder and curling the fingers of his working arm (you don't want to think about the one that's lying limp by his side, christ. How badly did you break him?) in your sweatshirt. You wrap your arms around his waist, steadying, and start guiding him towards the bathroom.

"Did you miss me, Tom?" His tone is teasing, but the grip on your hoodie is desperate. You think of his voicemail and wonder exactly how far down this rabbit hole goes.

"Yeah." He snorts, nuzzling at your neck the way he always did after sex, and you haul him into the bathroom and sit him down on the toilet.

When you finally pry him off of you, he goes back to cradling his dead arm. The side of his face is lacerated, cuts not infected but not as clean as they could be, and you rummage around under the cabinet before pulling out a almost-new first-aid kit, one of the nice ones that you'd picked up when you were trying to bandage your own busted arm. Before he can resist, you're rubbing at his face with an antibacterial swab and he's hissing in pain. "Stop moving or it'll get in your eyes," you mutter. He stills, jaw clenching and unclenching as you clean crusted blood off of his face. 

You work your way down the side of his neck, following the cuts and burns until you reach the collar of his grimy sweatshirt. "You've gotta take it off," you say, finally making meeting his gaze. There's something wrong with his right eye and it’s making you feel nauseous. 

He tenses at your words, and you move to grab the medical shears when he finally concedes, awkwardly maneuvering his way out of the dirt-encrusted cotton until he's topless in front of you and

oh god.

"Staring is rude, Tom." He's trying for levity but lands just this side of shame as you stare blankly at the sutures connecting the mechanical arm to his shoulder. They're uneven, you realize, and well on their way to being infected. When you finally start to clean them, he cries out in pain. 

"What the hell, Tord," you breathe, swabbing at the seam between his skin and the prosthetic as gently as you can. 

"It's connected to my nervous system, at least in terms of efferent signaling. The neurons are still repairing themselves, but..." He sees the uncomprehending look you're giving him and tries again. "I'll be able to move it when it heals a little better. The machinery connects to my brain, so that I can move it just like my old one."

He's explaining this all to you haltingly as you finish wiping down the sutures, and sighs in relief when you finish. "It was the best I could do on short notice," he admits quietly. 

You don't know how to respond to that, so instead you wet a towel in the sink and start scrubbing the dirt out of his hair, slowly moving down to wipe the right side of his face. His normal arm has a death grip on the toilet seat while his robot arm hangs limp. "I didn't have time to let it heal. I needed to find you before you could leave forever." He starts shaking again, and you're useless to calm him as you continue to wordlessly wash him off. All you hear for a while is the sound of his shuddering breathing. 

When you finish bathing him to the best of your ability, you stand, picking up the towel and the remains of his sweatshirt and moving to leave the bathroom. Before he can get a word out, you cut him off. "I'm throwing the towel in the hamper and this hoodie in the trash. You'll take the bed, I'll sleep on the couch. No, I'm not leaving you."

He seems mollified by this, and as you dig through your closet for something that will fit him (he's taller than you, but you're broader. You'd have gone to the dollar store to pick something up for him if you'd known he was coming. There was no possibility of you turning him away, did he realize that?) you're left with the conclusion that the only thing that will is the ratty blue sweatshirt you're wearing now. Looks like you're sleeping in an undershirt tonight.

You return and throw him the hoodie. He tries and fails to catch it. "My right eye's blind now, Tom," he says, a touch sardonically as he grabs it off the floor. "I don't have depth perception anymore."

"Oh," is all you can manage. He struggles to pull your hoodie on and waits patiently for you to help him up, letting you wrap an arm around him before towing him to your room. His pants aren't the cleanest things, and you'll definitely still have to wash the sheets after letting him sleep here, but it's late and you're not up for the inevitable drama dropping his jeans would entail. 

You help him pull off his shoes before slumping down next to him on your bed. There are too many questions running through your head, and you're distracted by them, sure, but not distracted enough to miss the way he's pressing up against you, neck in the crook of your shoulder as he breathes you in. 

"Tord," you mumble, and you're not sure if it's a warning or an encouragement. There's a sudden burst of pain at your throat and your eyes flutter shut at the familiar sensation of him sucking you a hickie. When he finally pulls away, running the tip of his tongue up the quickly bruising skin, you moan. It's been too long.

He's laughing in your ear again, softly now, and you can still feel the fine tremors running through him where he's leaning up against you. "Classic, stupid Tom."

"Classic, stupid me," you agree, and let him pull you down into bed.

\---

(you don't let him do much more than nip at your throat, and he's asleep within minutes, damp hair under your chin as you ask yourself what the fuck you think you're doing. just hours ago, you were sure that he was dead. yet here he is, snoring softly with his cheek up against your t-shirt, broken and bruised, yes, but very much alive. 

you let your fingertips graze the marks he left on your neck, let yourself feel the old excitement and fear and shame bubble up again. you ache. 

you move your body so that you're closer to him, feel his feverish warmth. you can already feel the old mantras dredging themselves back from the depths of your mind, reasserting your place in the universe as the lowest of the low. karmic middle finger, you think, and brush his hair out of his eyes as carefully as you can. 

you fall asleep next to him.)

\---

You wake up next to him for the first time that morning. He's curled up against you, breathing steady and slow, and with the right side of his body hidden from your view you can almost pretend that things are normal between you. 

It takes you a while to extract yourself-- the first time you try, he wakes up just enough to mumble a complaint and drag you back into bed, burying his face in your chest and filling you with a terrifying and unexpected affection. By the time you're out of bed and pulling your jeans back on, it's getting close to noon.

You slide on your shoes and head across the hall, rapping on Edd's door for a good minute before giving up and trying the knob. He forgot to lock it, as per usual.

You find him holed up in his room, earbuds playing so loudly that you can hear them from four meters away. He's hunched over his drawing tablet. "You're gonna give yourself a permanent stoop if you keep this up," you remark loudly, and he jumps, reaching immediately for the magic sword by his side. You weren't the only one who came out of the End a bit more paranoid.

"Tom, hey! Shouldn't you be at work?" Edd leans back and smiles at you, pausing the music. You really should be at the mall by now. 

"Something came up," you start, and his expression immediately shifts from cheerful to concerned. You're trying to think of the most tactful way to put this. "You remember Tord?"

Edd's looking pained now, and you continue awkwardly, "and how I killed him and all?"

"It was an act of self-defense, Tom, you really don't need to blame yourse-"

"No, it's not that-" you introject, but he keeps talking over you. 

"Seriously, Tom, no one blames you for that but yourself. I know that Tord was your friend but-"

"He wasn't my friend, Edd, but-"

"You've got to let go of the guilt already. He's dead, Tom, and there's nothing you can do abou-"

“ _He's not dead,_ " you finally grit out, and Edd falls silent, stunned. "That's what I came to tell you. He showed up on my doorstep last night."

"Oh... Wowza." 

"Yep." You grant him a few seconds to process that before continuing. "He's in bad shape, Edd. Like, literally sewed a robot arm onto himself levels of bad shape."

"That... Definitely sounds like something Tord would do, yeah." Edd chuckles a little at that and sighs, rising from his desk chair. "I'll grab Matt and pick up some Tylenol and bandages from the store. Do you want me to get anything else while I'm there?"

"Some clothes for Tord, I guess. I can't tell how long he intends to stay, and I'm pretty sure Matt won't lend him anything."

Edd fumbles around his desk before coming up with his car keys, jamming them into his pockets. "Right, yeah. Sounds like a plan."

"Thanks, Edd." He already halfway out the door, but he turns around to give you a tired smile. "You're the best."

"I try," he says with a wink, and leaves to go find Matt.

\---

(you get a text from matt almost instantly asking if you and tord are still, as he puts it, "a thing"

"wtf matt"

"if u think i missed all ur hickies back when he lived w us then u dont know me at all ;) ;) ;)"

your hand flies up to your throat. you check the mirror.

edd hadn't said anything. 

"so?? y/n???!?"

\---

You come home to find Tord still asleep in your bed.

You stand in the doorway to your room for a bit, studying him. He seems to have stopped shaking, thankfully, but he's still grimy from whatever misadventures brought him to your apartment. 

"Wake up, Commie," you mumble, shaking his good arm a little. "You need a shower."

He doesn't respond as you begin to shake more roughly, and you're about to start checking for vital signs when he stage-whispers, "that's no way to wake a sleeping beauty, Tom," and you seriously start to consider decking him for old time's sake.

You kiss him awake (heavy air quotes) and he laughs, and you feel lighter than air when you finally pull away. "You smell disgusting, jeez." 

"You're not one to talk," he replies, and for once his insult feels more like a joke than a condemnation of your character. The banality of all this is starting to freak you out a little, so you gesture pointedly at the bathroom and remove yourself from the vicinity.

\---

(when he emerges from the shower, clean and clad only in a towel, you help him reapply the bandages. 

you're good at this. being friends with edd for so long has taught you how to patch up a wound, and you'd learned how to get creative when your health insurance got too expensive to handle. there's something oddly methodical about it-- assess, clean, cover, move on-- and you're not paying attention to tord until you realize that he's shirtless and water is dripping slowly down his chest and he's giving you a look that makes you want to fuck him right here in the bathroom, burns half-dressed. 

but you're not twenty anymore. you hold onto your self-control for long enough to fix up his sutures and then he's letting the towel drop, his hand in your hair as he pulls you into a bruising kiss. 

it's quick and messy, more stress relief than eroticism, and when you finally pull away to catch your breath you see him gazing up at you with his one working eye like you're god and think of his voicemail and wonder how long you get to have this before it all goes up in flames.)

\---

Edd shows up while you're making the two of you lunch. Tord's lying in front of the TV, enraptured by The Walking Dead. You've learned that you can tell when someone's been brutally murdered on the screen by listening for his giggles, which is simultaneously endearing, given your history with him and zombies, and horrifying, given your history with him and zombies. 

"I picked up some bandages and medical tape, like the nice stuff? Matt chose the clothing because I had no idea what size Tord wears," Edd's saying, pushing the door open with his shoulder, and Tord goes very still. "I think it's mostly red. That's a Communist thing, right? Tord's supposed to be the Red Leader, isn’t h- oh, hey Tord!" Matt's coming in behind Edd now, carrying the plastic bags that Edd isn't, and Tord's face is going through a range of expressions with remarkable speed. 

"Hullo, Edd," Tord finally responds, rising from the couch to face him. "Fancy seeing you here."

To Edd's credit, he doesn't flinch at the sight of Tord’s injuries. To no one's surprise, Matt does. 

"Tord! What happened to your face?" Matt exclaims, and even from a distance you can see Tord forcibly restraining himself. 

"Oh, nothing. I was just shot out of the sky with a harpoon gun," he says softly, and the venom in his voice makes you focus on the water you're boiling with a bit more intensity than before. You hear Tord stand up, voice still soft. "My giant robot exploded, yeah? And the resulting fire burned my face. Destroyed my right arm, too. This one," he gestures to his prosthetic, "won't be functional for a while yet. And my eye, Matt. I'll never see from this eye again." 

Matt's shying away from Tord, who has paused in his monologue to walk over to where you're standing in the kitchen. He wraps an arm around your waist, grip too tight to be comfortable.

"What are they doing here, Tom?" His voice is still low, dangerous, and you try to shove him off a little, but he holds fast. "Why did you tell them that I was here?"

"Someone had to run to the store and grab you clothes," you say, defensive. "And I didn't want to leave you alone in the apartment." 

Edd seems to recognize the tension immediately, clapping Matt on the shoulder and breezing out on some false pretense, leaving you alone with Tord. Once the door slams shut, you turn on him. "What the hell is your problem?"

He's livid for reasons you can't comprehend. “No one can know I'm here, Tom. Get this through your head." 

He's working you up now, the way he always does, and you finally gather your wits enough to push him away from where he's got you pinned against the cabinet. He stumbles back a step before catching himself. "Why? You can't just waltz back into my life, terrorize my friends, explain literally nothing, and expect me to just go along with your ridiculous mood swings!" You see his fist clenching and unclenching in the sleeve of his borrowed hoodie. You feel yourself flushing with anger. "What the hell are you even doing here?" 

"Shut up," he shouts, slamming you up against the counter as the pot on the stove begins to boil. He's pinning you to the wall now, face uncomfortably close to yours, and looking this closely the barely-healing burns makes you feel sick. "You think you're so tough, hm? Think you can break my cover and not face the repercussions just because you're my favorite fucktoy?"

His question makes you freeze, and he's laughing at you, face still contorted in anger. "You like that, don't you? You like being called my fucktoy? Slut," he spits, and his thigh is pushing between your legs as the argument spirals out of your control. "Needy little whore. I bet you told them just to get me to fuck you, didn't you?"

"I didn't-" you manage, before he's grinding his leg into you and you're gasping in pain. 

"Liar," he growls, this time in your ear. "You're getting off on this, aren't you, Tom? Tell me that you're getting off to this."

He never answered any of your questions, you realize, mind quickly hazing over with lust. You groan when he moves his working hand to tug on your hair, just the way you like it. He's messing with your head.

"Say it, Tom." He gives your hair another yank and bites at your neck and you're gone.

"I'm getting off to this," you breathe, and he exhales hard and bites you harder, dragging his nails from your scalp down your side. 

"Now beg." You can feel his cock against you, and you rub yourself against it. Needy little whore. 

"Tord, please-" you groan as he rocks his thigh against you, "bite me."

That came out differently than you intended, but you're too into it to notice and Tord just snorts. "If you say so, darling." 

Suddenly his teeth are everywhere and you're overwhelmed, wrapping your arms around him for support as he covers your neck in bruises. You cry out and he laughs, high-pitched and a little insane, running his tongue up your jaw before going back to abusing your throat. All you can manage now is a series of quiet whimpers, hips thrusting quickly up against his thigh. Your pants are painfully tight. When you move a hand to unzip them, Tord pulls away from you entirely and slaps at your hand. 

You look up at him, wrecked and confused. The sudden lack of contact is unbearable. A little delirious, you start palming at yourself through your pants as he watches you and you groan. 

"Keep your pants on, Tom. Come in your pants like the slut that you are." 

He's watching you with brutal intensity and his words make you whine as he presses his thigh between your legs again, trapping your hand there. You go back to rubbing at yourself and he's hissing a quiet _yes_ that makes you shudder. You feel lower than dirt and this only makes you harder. 

"Tell me you're my slave, Tom."

You hate yourself. You're so close you could cry. "'M your slave."

"Tell me you're my fucktoy."

"'M your- aahh, god- I'm your fucktoy." Your voice is cracking. You're scum. 

"Tell me you're mine, Tom," he's panting in your ear now, hand down his own pants as he jacks himself off to your self-loathing. "Tell me you're mine and no one else can touch you but me."

"Only you," you choke out. "'M yours."

"Say my name."

"Tord," you groan, and everything goes white. 

When your vision clears, you're on the kitchen floor. The pot's boiling over, and you distantly think you should do something about that, when suddenly there's a dick in your face. 

"Suck it," Tord orders, and you're too fucked-out to properly explain that you've never sucked anyone off before. When you open your mouth to protest, he grabs you by the hair and thrusts into your mouth, and all you can do is try to keep from choking on him. 

It only takes a few thrusts before he's coming all over your face, and you sort of collapse onto the tile, spent. All you can hear is his ragged breathing and the sound of water boiling over. 

\---

(when night comes, you crash on the couch, alone. your mind hasn't stopped reeling. 

right before you drift off, you feel the side of the couch sink down. he's there, wrapped in your comforter and still wearing your blue hoodie. 

he doesn't apologize, but he spoons up behind you, covering you with the blanket and sighing into the top of your head. 

"i can't tell you why i'm here, tom. not yet. but nobody can know that i'm here. it's of the utmost importance that you tell no one."

his fingertips trace the mess of bruises painting your throat. you wonder if he's admiring his own handiwork and the thought makes you shiver. 

"please, tom. i need you to understand." you're staring at the popcorn plaster ceiling. you've already forgiven him. 

"i love you," you mumble, voice hoarse. you feel the tension seep out of him, let yourself sink into his embrace a little further. 

you stop asking him questions after that.)

\---

He wakes you up early the next morning, prodding at your shoulder until you turn to blearily face him, and he's beaming. You have no idea why you're on the couch and not the bed. You'll care in a minute or two.

"Tom, look!" He gestures to his robot arm and his face twists in concentration. The fingers twitch and he beams. "It's finally starting to heal!"

That's... Pretty cool, actually. "Congrats, babe," you manage, blinking sleep out of your eyes. 

He laughs, and everything is warm for a second. "Go back to bed, darling. You're looking a little like death."

"'M not a morning person," you mumble, snuggling back up against his chest. He's petting you gently, and you're at peace with the universe.

\---

(you fall into a routine quickly:  
\- wake up next to him. take the time to appreciate his constant fever-heat and the way he looks softer while he's asleep. trite, definitely, but true.  
\- he showers, you make breakfast. when he's done, you fix his bandages, looking away from his clouded left eye.  
\- you spend the day at home. he spends the day at home. you're rich for the moment, so there's no reason not to. you play bass for him sometimes, just to keep yourself from getting bored.  
\- fight. fight over something stupid and trivial and wait until he's twisting your words around again. fight until you're both screaming at the top of your lungs, fight until you scare the neighbors, fight until he fucks you because that's all this is about, isn't it? you don't have the spine to ask so you pick petty fights and he makes you hate yourself the way you should.  
\- remind yourself, as he's dragging his nails down your back, that you deserve this.  
\- bliss. loathing. you're still screaming yourself hoarse until he grabs you by the throat and chokes you into darkness.  
\- wake up covered in his cum on the floor. check body for damages. nice going, genius.  
\- shower, make him dinner. ignore him when he comes up behind you and puts his chin on your shoulder and lets himself touch every place that he bruised or bit or drew blood. ignore him as he touches himself. ignore him as he starts touching you.  
\- eat dinner while he devours you with his eyes. insulting each other now is optional but preferred.  
\- watch a movie or something. anything. he'll follow you anywhere in the apartment, sometimes talking endlessly, other times disturbingly silent. his hands are everywhere.  
\- go to bed. curl up next to him in the sheets because he's warm and you're worthless and it's not like anyone else would ever want to cuddle with you. you wouldn't want to cuddle with you.  
\- don't fucking cry, damnit. don't you dare fucking cry.  
\- fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

you've got this down to a science.)

\---

You make the mistake of busting into Edd’s house while Edd is unoccupied and you’ve got his sword at your throat before he realizes who you are. The door to Edd's apartment rattles shut behind you with finality. You can still hear Tord shouting your name from two apartments over.

"What the heck, Tom?" You're breathing heavily. You can still feel Tord's saliva on your neck, slipping slowly down the collar of your shirt. You're ready to murder someone. Edd's staring at you like you've grown a second head (which, for the record, you have not) and the pointy bits of his blade are too close to your windpipe for comfort. "What's wrong?"

"Give me my fucking alcohol, Edd," you say through gritted teeth as Edd lowers the tip of his sword to below knee level and you feel safe moving away from the door. "I can't deal with him sober anymore."

"Is this about Tord?" Edd asks, and he must know how stupid of a question that is. You can tell by the way that he’s eyeing your neck that he knows it's a stupid question.

"Give me my alcohol, Edd," you repeat, enunciating every word, and the look he's giving you makes you grind your teeth together. You know how Tord feels about marking his territory. You know that, for all intents and purposes, your body is his territory. You're surprised that he hasn't tried to brand his weird Communist sigil into your ass already. You don't need Edd's pity to remind you of how it looks, thank you very much. "I know you're the one who took it. I already checked Matt's apartment."

"Tom, this is a problem," Edd starts, and you can't tell if he means the alcohol or the mess that Tord's made of your neck or Tord himself. You don't care. You're already pushing past him to check his bedroom drawers while he trails after you, trying to convince you to... Do what, exactly? Not drink? Kick Tord out? Make your mess of a relationship into something "healthy" and "normal"? 

"Tom, please don't do this to yourself," Edd's begging as you find your Smirnoff, buried behind the emergency cola in the bathroom cabinet. About damn time. 

"Why shouldn't I, Edd?" You're already popping the top off, making full eye contact in the way that makes normal people uncomfortable ("freak," tord's whispering in your ear, "monster, scum"). "Give me one good reason not to, and I won't."

You're standing there in his bathroom, waiting for him to say something, to try to dissuade you. Edd opens his mouth, hesitates, and then closes it. He looks uncomfortable.

"Thought so," you mutter, taking a long swig.

\---

(you spend a long time wandering around your neighborhood before returning home, slowly drowning in your bottle. you haven't been outside in nearly a week, have you? you hadn't realized that until now.

when you return, dazed and buzzed and not sure what to expect, tord answers the door before you can knock, lets you in silently. you're bracing yourself.

he slugs you with his robot arm.

you're reeling, hands flying up to cover your eye socket, because he hit you in the fucking face with his metal arm, and you howl in pain. 

he winds up, swings again, this time hitting you square in the gut. you retch, gasp for breath, and vomit all over yourself. 

you're sobbing, the world a whirlwind of motion around you, and you hear tord screaming over the rush of your own blood in your ears as you retch again, a constant high-pitched screech of "DON'T LEAVE ME DON'T LEAVE ME LIKE THAT TOM DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE AGAIN" and you're staggering to your feet to run for it when matt bursts in, followed quickly by edd, and there's an altercation that you can't hear super well because suddenly everything is very far away and you're so, so tired and you're drifting away-)

\---

You wake up in the hospital with a piercing headache.

Tord's sitting in the chair beside your bed. Someone in the hospital must have been kind enough to give him an actual eyepatch, because the mess of his right eye is finally covered. He's wearing your hoodie, the one he borrowed on the first night he reentered your life. Even from a distance you can tell that he's rocking back and forth, uncovered eye wide. You can just barely hear him mumbling to himself in Norwegian. 

You groan in pain, closing your eyes against the bright fluorescent light, and everything hits you at once.

"Tord," you choke out, and he's at your side in an instant, apologies spilling from him so quickly that you can't tell what he's saying, his human hand fluttering to touch your forehead, your shoulder, the bandages on your eyebrow, while his mechanical arm is limp by his side. 

"I'm so sorry, Tom, I'm so sorry, I never meant to do that to you, Tom, I love you so much, I never meant to hurt you like that, I'm so sorry, Tom, please-" He's crying and your head is throbbing and you close your eyes and grope blindly for his hand and take it in yours. 

"'S fine," you hear yourself saying. "'M alright, babe." His thumb is tracing circles on the back of your hand and he kicks off his shoes and nudges you over gently and spoons up next to you in the hospital bed and he's warm and solid and doing that thing where he pets you and you start to cry because you've been conscious for less than two minutes and the pain in your head and the desperate blackness in your stomach are so, so much more than you can take, and he's soothing you and hushing you like you're a child and you start to sob, the ugly kind that covers your face in mucus and evidently makes concussion pain worse, and you don't _care_ what the nurse thinks when she walks in, you don't fucking care. 

\---

(he's silent most of the drive home, and you're grateful for that. you're staring out the window, trying to ignore the haphazard nature of tord's driving and the pounding in your own skull.

"i'll try to be better," he whispers, and your heart is painful in your chest. "i love you."

"i love you too, tord."

he pulls to the shoulder of the highway with a screech and turns on the hazards and kisses you, and you love him so much it hurts.)

\---

Every time you see Edd, all he can talk about is Tord. 

"He nearly killed you, Tom!" Edd's gesticulating wildly. You're digging through his bathroom cabinet again, looking for more alcohol. 

"Yeah, and I shot him down with a harpoon gun," you retaliate, grabbing the bottle and heading for the door (before Tord wakes up to find you gone and- well). 

"It's not the same, Tom, and you know it!" Edd's got a lecture coming on, you can feel it, so you shrug him off and leave before he can get started on that. You already know what he's going to say. You don’t want to hear it. 

\---

(the thing is, you can't leave him. tord is your true north, the axis around which your sense of self revolves. it's been like this for years, edd, since you were twenty and he moved in and read your flaws like a book and kissed you hard agains the countertop, why can't you see that? you need him more than you need air.)

\---

Tord's reading a book on the couch when you return to your apartment and raises an eyebrow when you brandish the bottle, suspicious. "The nurse said no drinking until you're healed, Tom."

"C'mon, it can't be that big of a deal," you drawl, leaning up on the back of his seat. "I've been out for what, three days now? I'm totally healed." 

Tord's considering, brow furrowed. You've been behaving these past few days. He owes you this one. 

"Drink with me?" you offer, waving the Smirnoff in his face like it'll change his mind, and he sighs.

"Fine, but only because you've been such a good boy lately." He's watching with a devilish grin as you respond to his words despite yourself. While you're busy thinking dirty thoughts, he snatches the bottle from your hands and takes the first sip. 

\---

(it feels good, drinking. lets you turn your brain off for a while.)

\---

It's a good kind of tipsy, you decide, your head full of cotton. You've missed getting drunk in good company. 

Tord's loosening up a little now, curled up around you protectively, but he's keeping an eye (his only eye) on the door. He yawns and you bump the bottom of his jaw with the top of your head and he laughs.

"Hey, Tom," he starts, staring off into the distance as he absently plays with you hair.

"Mm?" His fingertips are messing with the small curls at the nape of your neck and you lean into his touch. 

"'M wondering."

"Wonderin' what?" He's still watching the door, solemn. His fingers move slowly, deliberately, and you let your eyes fall shut. 

He pauses, and you can feel him shaking his head before continuing. "Nevermind. Why're your eyes black?"

"'S cause, like, my mom was a bowling ball? 'N my dad was, he was like a pineapple or somethin', I dunno," you trail off, and he's snickering. 

"Y'can't have a fruit-dad, Tom. 'S like. Impossible. You gotta have humans. Human parents." His words are light, airy, but you can feel a pent-up tension behind it. His touch is moving down slowly, tracing your vertebrae. 

"Ngh. My parents like, might as well've been a ball and a fruit, y'know? Like for all the good they did." Tord taps a nail on your spine and you shudder. "But I dunno why, like. My eyes're all weird?" 

"I like 'em," Tord mumbles. "They're very... Tom. Very Tom." He ghosts his hand down the back of your shirt and finds his way under it, sliding slowly back up. 

"Feels good," you breathe, and Tord's snorting, tracing the gaps between bones as you melt into the touch. "Feels real good when you do that." 

"I wanna blow you, Tom," he's saying, running his palm down to the small of your back. "You're a good boy. A good, good boy 'n I wanna make you feel real good, Tom," and you're moaning as you fumble with the button of your jeans. 

"Why's it," you're saying, still fiddling with the zipper, "that you're like. Always tryna do me, Tord? 'S like you always wanna get in my pants?"

He's helping you ease your pants off, and you open your eyes when he gets off the couch to drop between your knees. "'S like. You dunno how to show love except for with sex."

"'S hard," he's murmuring, and you can't tell if he's talking about your dick or about his feelings. "Lemme blow you, Tom."

"No, nono," you're saying, and he's finally looking up at you. You do the thing he always does with the hand in your hair and watch as Tord relaxes into your touch. "You gotta, like. Learn intimacy 'n shit, Tord. 'S important." 

He's grumbling, but you're drunk and you're determined. "C'mon, babe. Talk t' me 'bout like. Feelings 'n junk."

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Only if I can suck you after," he says, rocking back on his knees and eyeing your dick.

"Fiiiinnne," you concede. You're definitely more than fine with that. "Now. Feelings."

Tord leans back a little farther, thinks about it for a second. "I like you like. A lot, Tom. Like a scary lot?" You're nodding and he keeps talking, gesturing awkwardly with his robot arm. "'S like. You get me? I dunno if anyone else gets me like you. 'N that's scary. 'Cause like. I dunno what to do without you at all?" 

"Yeah," you say, but he's still rambling. It's like a floodgate's been broken somewhere inside of him.

"'M leavin' soon, Tom. Like, for real this time, I think? 'M not coming back after." You're gaping at him, but his eyes have drifted back to your dying erection. "'S in a week, Tom. 'M gonna be gone in a week. Gonna run the Army and be Leader again? 'N I can't just leave you, y'know? Like you're my everything, Tom. 'M doin' it all for you."

His eyes are closed now, and you're still messing with his hair. "I came back jus' for you, yeah? Like. I want you t' come back with me. To the army. I came back to get you to come back with me." He starts to giggle. "'S stupid, right? Classic, stupid Tom. But 'm gonna try, y'know? 'M gonna try to get you to come back with me."

"Oh," is all you can manage, and he's nuzzling you through your underwear.

\---

(you wake up to the smell of cigar smoke. 

sometime during the night, you must have made it back to the bedroom. you're shirtless and sporting at least five new hickies, while tord's back is covered in scratches. he's sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from you. another cloud of smoke drifts away from him.

"don't suppose you forgot any of that, huh?" he lets out a pathetic little laugh. "remind me to never drink with you again."

"so it's true? you're leaving in a week?" you haven't seen him smoke since the day you shot him out of the sky.

he turns to face you then, the scarring wounds on his face and side standing out in sharp relief against his pale skin. he's holding his cigar between two mechanical fingers. 

"are you coming with me?")

\---

Matt opens his door seconds after you knock, beaming at you like you've just made his day. "Company!"

"Hey, Matt," you begin, searching for the right words. "I was wondering if-"

"Oh, don't stand out there all alone! Come on inside!" Matt interjects, opening the door wider and bodily pulling you into his apartment. He pats you on the shoulder, inadvertently pushing down on a fresh bite wound, and you wince.

Matt's apartment has always been disconcerting in the extreme-- as much as you love the man (which you do, for the record. He's one of your closest friends), you can't help but sweat when you feel so many pairs of luminous blue eyes on you. "Take a seat!" Matt exclaims, and you gingerly set yourself down on the proffered sofa. It's worth at least ten times as much as your sofa. Matt's modeling career is worth at least ten times as much as your busking. "This is about Tord, isn't it?"

You won't even try to deny it. "He's asked me to uh... Take a really big leap in our relationship. You seemed like the sort of person I'd want to go to about this."

Matt glows with the praise, and you feel a little guilty for not thinking to talk with him sooner. He'd always had a pretty normal romantic life, even with his... Eccentricities. "I'm happy to help! What did he ask you for?"

"Um." You're trying to think of a way to talk around this. "He's gonna be moving away soon, really far away-"

"Like back to Norway! Because he's from Norway!" Matt looks proud of himself for remembering this.

"I mean, sure. Yeah. Like back to Norway." For all you know, he could literally be headed back to Norway. Damn.

"And he's asking you to come with him?" Matt's eyes are twinkling mischievously and you have to admit, you're impressed with how quickly he picked that up. "It seems like you have that sort of commitment going on!"

That's one way of putting it. "Yeah. So I'm trying to figure out if I should, y'know, uproot my life and go with him."

Matt's ten-kilowatt smile becomes a pensive frown. "Is that what you came to ask me?"

"Well, yeah. I guess?" You have no idea where Matt is going with this conversation. You rarely do. 

His frown deepens, and you dig your fingers into the couch upholstery, wondering if you've said something wrong. "Well, why'd you come to ask me something like that?"

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. How do you explain the nature of your relationship with Tord? _Hello, I'm Tom. This is my enemy-with-benefits who also happens to have an unhealthy obsession with me whose emotional state is deeply entangled with mine as a result of our common agreement that we are both too fucked up to love anyone normally, Tord. Pleasure to meet you._ "I dunno. It's a large shift in my life and I wanted an outside opinion before I do something rash."

Matt's frown transforms to a sly grin in a flash, and you worry for your fate. "Tom, when are you not rash?"

"I don't know? Never, I guess." You're getting increasingly confused.

Matt's grin deepens, becomes conspirational. You wonder at how all of his many and varied expressions are so easily identifiable. You recall the play freshman year and resolve to never again doubt a theatre kid. "Exactly. So what does it say about the fact that you didn't say yes immediately?"

Matt's point is beginning to dawn on you. "Wait. So you're saying that-"

"You don't actually want to go, Tom. You're searching for someone to talk you out of it, aren't you?" He must be able to tell by your expression that he hit the nail square on the head. "Why didn't you just say no?"

The truth is humiliating, so you settle on a nice lie. "I thought I'd need more time to think about it, see if I changed my mind."

Matt nods empathetically. Around you, multiple mirror Matts do the same. "Well, you didn't. Does that help at all?"

In a strange way, it really does. "Yeah. Thank you." 

"I'm helpful!" Matt cheers as you make your way out the door, leaving him in his visual echo chamber as you go to face the music.

\---

(he's sitting in front of the tv when you return. you close the door quietly behind you, but he hears it anyways.

"so. edd told you not to come with me, didn't he?" he's staring straight ahead, expression unreadable.

you don't correct him. "yeah."

"you do know that i'll leave next week, with or without you, tom. i have an army to lead and a world to salvage."

"yeah."

"tom." his voice is flat. 

"yeah?" you barely keep your voice from cracking. 

"i want you to know that i love you, and that this is for your own good." 

"tord, what the-" you hear the soft, unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off. you go stock still. 

"i love you, tom." he's getting up now, and you can see the gun in his hand. it's small, a handgun-- not tord's normal style, but definitely enough to kill you from this distance, and that's all that really matters, isn't it. 

he's walking towards you now, and you're fighting every instinct telling you to run, because you know him well enough to know that he won't miss a moving target. 

"get on your knees."

you obey. he's in front of you now, letting cool robotic fingers tip up your chin, pry open your lips. the barrel is cold on your tongue. you're praying, now.

"blow it."

you obey.)

\---

Tord's breathing is harsh and irregular, his functional pupil blasted. He jams the gun further down your throat, making you gag. 

"Don't act like you're not enjoying this, bitch." His words are soft, his hand shaking as you suck the barrel of the gun as sensually as you can. You run your tongue up the underside and he whispers, "fuck, Tom." 

Your mind is blank, rushing whiteness. Adrenaline. Fear. Your heart is beating too fast. You think the terror might kill you before the bullet does. You hum around the wet metal in your mouth and Tord moans like it's his dick you're sucking, his dick that you're running your tongue up and down. You close your eyes and focus on the sound, on the petrified and sudden arousal you feel. You whimper as Tord loses control, jams it deeper than you can take it. You've never tried deep throat before, let alone with a gun. You don't notice that you're crying until you open your eyes and realize that you can't see. 

"You have to understand, Tom," he's panting, as you take it a little deeper and start gagging and he groans, "I need you. I need you to break, Tom. I need you to come with me." 

Your body is betraying you, and the sudden rush of blood downwards leaves you lightheaded. Tord doesn't break his rhythm, a sharp in-out, in-out that leaves you with almost no room to breathe, but he gives you a dry chuckle when he sees you palming yourself. "You little whore."

His words only make it worse and you whine, moving your hips in needy little thrusts as you work yourself up. There's spit dripping down your chin, now, and he's struggling to get his pants off with his prosthetic arm. Slowly, you pull off the gun, leaving a thin trail of saliva between the metal and your lips before turning to help him with trembling hands. You think you might faint. 

When he finally pulls his underwear down, you let his dick slap against your cheek and he gasps, hand fisted in your hair as he guides himself into your mouth. He's hot on your tongue, his skin more forgiving than the barrel of the gun, and you nearly choke again when his hips buck too enthusiastically. 

You dedicate one hand to pulling out your own dick while the other works his shaft in long, slow strokes. The sight of you must have gotten to him more than you'd thought, because he's coming in moments and you do your best to swallow him down. 

While he's gasping, you're jacking yourself vigorously, almost painfully. Your heart is still racing so hard that it hurts, it hurts, and you're getting close when you hear him rasp, "stop."

You are very aware of the gun that is now pressed into your forehead and freeze, pull your hands away from yourself slowly. "You know what to do," he manages through his heavy breathing. 

"I'm your slave," you whisper, eyes still streaming tears as you keep your hands behind your back. "Your fucktoy. Your slut. I'll do whatever you say. I live to please you."

"That's it, Tom." His eye is staring at you with an inhuman, ravenous hunger. "That's a good boy."

You whimper and continue, terrifyingly aware of the dripping barrel he’s now prodding your temple with. "Please, Tord, let me touch myself."

"Do it." He's watching as you slowly move your hands forward to your neglected cock, carefully following each agonizing stroke. You rub your thumb over your slit, spreading precum, and close your eyes tight. "Please, let me come."

"Come for me, Tom," he breathes, and you do, collapsing boneless to the floor when you're done.

You're sobbing now, quietly, when you hear him click the safety back on. He sinks to his knees beside you and hushes you, pats your back delicately, like you might break. You feel like you’re suffocating.

"I love you, Tom," he's saying, "I love you so much it hurts."

\---

(you don't move until he moves you, more gently than you deserve, into the bathroom. he strips you naked while you stare into the middle distance, ignoring how his eye lingers on the marks he's littered on your body these past few weeks. he helps you into the shower and leaves you to your own devices.

you turn the water temperature up as high as it goes and scrub yourself viciously, like soap and elbow grease alone are enough to clean off the reminders he left in your skin. you're his. you're his. you're his.

you avoid the mirror and return to your room and he's waiting there, helps you dress, curls up in bed with you, whispers soft promises to the top of your head and kisses you goodnight

and still, you love him.)

\---

You're looking in the bathroom mirror, now.

He's been brutal the past few days, his words sharper and his bites harder. You hear him in your thoughts, see him in your dreams, feel the marks he left deep in your skin. He's all-consuming, natural disaster given damaged human form, and you're his, and you're his, and you're his and nobody else's. 

He's your magnetic north, your axis of self. You can't imagine life without him holding you, without him biting you. He’s your everything.

He slips into the bathroom (doesn't knock, never does) and comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist and meets your fuckup eyes with his glowing one. 

“Leave with me, Tom. Please."

"No." 

He sighs, kisses one of the bruises on your neck. He's already hard again. "You'll change your mind, darling. I know you will."

\---

(edd threatens to call the police and matt gives you that terrified look he gave you once upon a time back in the er and you want to tell them that you're fine, really, you promise,

but tord stops letting them in and stops letting you out and smashes your phone with his mechanical arm and screams and screams and screams until you're locking yourself in the bathroom and he's threatening to break the door down and

you love him, you love him, you love him so much that it's killing you-)

\---

He comes up behind you in the kitchen, two days before he's supposed to leave, and starts playing with your hoodie drawstrings. It's idle and he's silent and you force your muscles to relax because it'll hurt much worse if you're tense.

"Hey, Tom," he drawls, watching closely as you chop the vegetables. "Remember when we used to talk on the phone?"

"Yeah." Your hands are trembling enough that you stop preparing dinner. You're waiting.

"Do you remember the first time we spoke? It was a few weeks after I'd left."

Gas station restroom. You broke your phone screen. You'd gotten plastered that night. Yeah, you remember. "Mm."

"Do you remember what I said I'd do to you? What I wanted to do to you?"

"No."

You drop the knife when his hands slip under your sweatshirt, running slowly up your sides. He feels so warm, so good against the healing bite marks there. 

"I told you I'd fuck you against the countertop, Tom." His words are at odds with his hands, mechanical and normal, running up and down your chest. You close your eyes and sigh. You don't resist as they move down your stomach, mess with the band of your underwear. You don't resist as he pulls down your pants, your underwear, as he rucks up your sweatshirt and leans over your bare skin. "I intend to make good on that."

It feels so good. You've been aching all over for days but now he's massaging you, rubbing at tension until it dissipates. You're melting into him and you can feel his smiling. Slowly, you're getting hard.

"I'd missed you, Tom. I'd missed you so much." He's talking into your shoulder, nuzzling bruises as he does so. “Leave with me."

"I can't," you breathe, and he goes still.

You realize your mistake when he fumbles for the knife.

"Tord, no. No nononono," you're begging, already trying to break away from him, but he's got you pinned with his robotic arm and you can't pry him off. "Tord, _please._ "

"I hate you," he's gritting out, roughly shoving your hoodie further up to expose your back. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you-"

You're hyperventilating and he's screaming awful things into your ear and then the knife breaks your skin and you're screaming, too, screaming bloody murder and he's carving into your back and it hurts it hurts oh _god_ -

You black out.

\---

(when you wake up, on the kitchen floor, you're alone. 

you push yourself dizzily to your feet, sway hard, drop back to your knees and wait for it to pass. your back hurts so, so badly.

"tord," you say hoarsely. "tord, please. it hurts." another wave of dizziness hits you, and you drop back onto the ground, shuddering. 

you lay there, blood dripping on the kitchen tile.)

\---

It's an hour before he comes for you, emerging from the bedroom ashen-faced and red-eyed. 

He finds you on the floor, a wreck, and shushes you. Wordlessly, he picks you up and carries you to the bathroom, careful not to rub up against any of the lacerations on your back. He sits you down on the toilet seat, grabs your medical kit, and doesn't meet your eyes. 

"I fucked up, Tom. I fucked up really bad." He's cleaning your back now, as delicately as he can. You don't have the strength to cry out anymore. "I think it'll scar."

You stay mute, face twisting in pain, and he keeps cleaning you off, wiping up congealing blood with a damp towel and swabbing the cuts with antibacterial cream. 

When he's done dressing your wounds, he helps you up and guides you into bed. He slips in beside you, forehead pressed against yours. You don't cry.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I love you like this."

\---

(he's leaving tomorrow.)

\---

You wake up alone. 

Slowly, you pull yourself out of bed. Your back feels tight, itchy from where it's already starting to heal. You amble into the kitchen and find Tord on the couch, watching television with a neutral expression on his face. 

"I've already packed," he says when he hears you. "I'll be gone tomorrow, don't worry."

Wordlessly, you sink onto the couch next to him, carefully lean your head on his shoulder. You need him. You need him like you need air. 

He's still not looking at you, focused resolutely on the television. You nudge your head up under his jaw, the way you did when you were drunk and he was honest, and his breath hitches and he kisses the top of your head. 

"I still love you," you mumble, and he kisses you again.

\---

(he's leaving tomorrow and his bags are packed and you can't survive without him-)

\---

He tells you everything. 

He's talking quickly, stumbling over his words because they won't keep up with his thoughts. He tells you about his army, about the eight years he spent away, about being Red Leader and Communism and his revolution. He speaks with the sort of fervor and conviction that makes you question his sanity. He pauses occasionally to kiss you-- the top of your head, your still-healing eyelid, the tip of your nose-- before he keeps going, faster than before.

"I'm going to fix it, Tom. I have to fix it," he's saying as the television drones on in the background. You're straddling his lap, forehead resting on his shoulder as his prosthetic fingers tap out frantic rhythms on your thigh. "I have to fix it so that you can be happy." 

\---

(he's leaving tomorrow and your bodies are tangled together on the couch and you love him, you love him so much-)

\---

You're lying on top of him. You're tracing every plane and angle of him with your fingertips, burning it into your memory, while he breathes slowly underneath you. His eye is fluttering shut, lips parted, and you try to remember him as hard as you can. "I love you," he breathes, and you feel hollow inside.

\---

("please, tom," he's saying, between kisses. "please. i need you.")

\---

He's carrying you back to the bedroom, your legs wrapped around his waist. You're mumbling protests and he's shushing you, setting you down on the bed carefully before pulling off his shirt. "Do you trust me, Tom?"

You do. You watch him with bated breath as he pulls off his pants, his underwear. He's got a bottle of lube in his hand. 

He uncaps the bottle, squeezes some out onto his human palm. You can feel yourself tensing already. "Hey, darling, don't be like that," he's teasing, and you're ready for him to rip off your jeans when he joins you on the bed and sticks a slick finger into himself.

You're entranced by the look on his face, by the concentration and pleasure you see there. He's arching into his own touch, adding another finger already. He's gorgeous. 

You kick your pants off, slide your underwear down, and focus on his breathing. He's clearly done this to himself before, and the thought of him on the phone with you like this makes you bite your lip.

He's got three fingers in himself now, and you can see the change when he hits his own prostate, the way his entire body jerks upwards, and you're stroking yourself, cupping your balls as you watch.

Finally, he pulls his fingers out and lays back on the bed, beckoning to you. You kneel over him, uncertain, and he laughs. "Come on, Tom," he's joking, sitting up to catch your hands in his, guiding them to his hips. "I can't do this part for you."

"I've never..." you trail off, and he understands your reluctance now, moving his hands up to your shoulders and laying you down against the bed, taking care not to hurt your back. He's looming over you, now, body bare and cock hard as he positions himself carefully. Eye locked with yours, he sinks down onto you. 

It's slick and tight and hot and you go in easily. "How does it feel?" Tord's asking, closing his eye as he takes the last inch. 

"Amazing," you breathe, and he smiles and starts to move.

\---

(it's intimate in a new way, the feeling of being inside of him.

he's leading, the motions of his hips setting your pace, and eventually you begin thrusting back up to meet him. it's slower than you thought it would be, more gentle, but it's making you burn in the best way and when he says your name you begin to come undone.

he speeds up when he notices, grinding his hips down and making you moan, and when you finally come you see stars. 

he collapses next to you, laughing breathlessly, and you're smiling for no reason and it's not fair that you're only finding this feeling now, goddamnit, it's not fair.)

\---

You stumble into the bathroom to shower, and he's close behind you, helping you peel off the bandages at your back and you look in the mirror and

he'd carved his name into you.

He ushers you into the shower, joins you in there as he turns the tap on and helps you rinse the cuts off in the shockingly cold water. 

"It's going to scar," was what he'd said, wasn't it? 

The water begins to warm, spray plastering your hair to your forehead, and he's asking you to forgive him as he lathers soap between his hands, and you feel like you're falling.

\---

(you can't go with him you can't lose him he's leaving tomorrow and you're terrified-)

\---

You're lying in bed with him for the last time.

He's on his back and your head is pillowed on his chest and he's messing with your hair with his mechanical hand and nothing's going to be the same after tonight. Your back still stings. He's smoking a cigar, good eye focused on the way the smoke drifts upward from the glowing end. 

"'S bad for your lungs, you know," you say. "Smoking, I mean. Kills you young."

"Yeah." He takes another drag, exhales through his nose. 

You grunt, burying your face in his neck. His hand tightens in your hair when you begin to suck.

"What was that for?" He doesn't seem upset when you pull away, studying your handiwork. You're not as good at giving hickies as he is, but this one ought to last a few days, at least. Long enough. 

"Don't want you forgetting me," you mumble, returning to lying next to him, and he chuckles at that and returns to carding his fingers through your hair. 

"I don't think I can ever forget you, Tom." He sighs, goes back to his cigar, exhales smoke. 

\---

(you want to stay in this limbo with him forever. you love him. you love him so goddamn much.)

\---

You wake up next to him. 

He's nuzzling the top of your head, legs tangled in yours below the sheets. You can feel where the cuts on your back opened last night, realize you'll have to try to wash the blood out of your sheets. You'll have Edd drive you to urgent care for stitches, just. Not now. Not while Tord's still here.

"You know I have to ask, Tom," he's whispering, and you can barely make out his words. "Come with me. Please."

You want to. You want to follow him to the ends of the earth. But your back is dripping blood and your neck is sore from his constant biting and your jaw aches from when he made you suck his loaded gun and you know better than to think you'd come out of this alive. "I can't, babe. I'm sorry." 

He takes a shaky breath, buries his face in your hair. "I don't know if I can do this without you. I can't be alone anymore."

You don't say anything, just let him hold you for a long time before he finally pulls away, helps you out of bed. It's time.

\---

(his bag is slung over his shoulder and he's wearing your stupid hoodie again, bloodstains barely visible after you'd given it a once-over with the extra-strength detergent. 

"i'll be back for you, tom. when this is all over, i'll be back for you." he's still pleading with his one working eye, hoping against hope. it hurts to look at him. "i love you."

you'll let him into your life again in a second, you know that. you'll let him kiss you and fuck you and kill you and the anticipation is already too much to bear. "please don't come back."

he smiles something awful and your heart is beating itself to death in your chest. "staying away's the one thing i can't do, darling."

he kisses you, then, promise and goodbye and confession all mixed up in his tongue, and you fall to your knees when he walks out the door.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “you see, love isn’t what I need  
> as long as I can set you free
> 
> …
> 
> i’m gonna be the anti-hero  
> feared and hated by everybody  
> i’m gonna be the anti-hero  
> so I can save you when the time comes" 
> 
> \- ANTI-HERO by End of the World
> 
> \---
> 
> This fic has been a trip and a half to produce, especially in this timeframe, and I have a lot of acknowledgements to give. Thank you to Ella, Kat, and Cassie for encouraging me to continue my writing, to Emily for continuing to read it, and to Pez for getting me to stop writing and get food on occasion. Special thanks go to Other Ari for her invaluable personal insight into gun sucking and to G (aka @jinxedlucky) for continuing to be my favorite beta, even when my writing really sucks and it's 3 AM and I have class in five hours. 
> 
> This is not the last of this story (even though I might not come back to it for another few months at minimum) and not the end of my involvement with this fandom. In fact, I'm going to offer Eddsworld drabble requests (within reason) to the first three people to leave comments containing puns on this chapter! Find me at @idiosyncraticmagic on tumblr or 8ballfracture on kik to discuss details (or even just to say hi)!


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